The Empty House
by bemj11
Summary: The Empty House, or at least, Lestrade's point of view on the matter. Dealing with the murder of Ronald Adair, the return of a certain detective, and the question of friendship.
1. Chapter 1

"I've heard the Inspector's theories."

"And?"

"They are absolutely ridiculous."

I shrugged dismissively. "He's new." I pointed out as I leaned back in my chair. Doctor Watson muttered something about that not being an excuse. "So you went by the house." I continued. "Did you go in?" The Doctor shook his head.

"Do _you_ have any theories?" I asked him.

Doctor Watson sighed. "It's a mystery to me." He admitted. "A man shot, the door locked, the weapon missing, I don't know what to make of it."

"You aren't the only one." I assured him. "Bradstreet's predicting another unsolved murder. As if three in one year weren't enough."

I didn't say that it was times like this when Sherlock Holmes was sorely missed at the Yard; I didn't have to. If his expression were any indication, the Doctor's thoughts echoed my own.

He shook his head and forced his thoughts away from that track. "How's your arm?"

"Sore." I admitted. "Jones forgot I've only had it out of the sling for a few days."

"What happened?" The Doctor looked worried; I offered him a small smile.

"He dragged me off to help break up a fight." I said. "I got backed into a corner and made the mistake of trying to hit someone right-handed. I think it hurt me more than it hurt him." I chuckled, but Doctor Watson was not reassured. "I caught him with my left while he was standing there laughing at me."

"Mind if I take a look?" The man asked anyway, vacating the other chair. He was standing over me in a few seconds.

"Will it make any difference _this time_ if I say yes?" I retorted.

The Doctor snorted, and I resigned myself to yet another examination. "It would be better if you wouldn't put so much strain on it." The Doctor scolded.

"I'll make sure people know that when they're resisting arrest." I shot back. The Doctor almost smiled.

"Just tell them your doctor said to take it easy on you." He suggested dryly.

"I'll do that." I rolled my eyes. The Doctor allowed himself to laugh as he finished inspecting my arm.

"Let me know how that works for you." He said, a twinkle in his eyes. It was good to see it. His eyes strayed toward the clock. "Is that the time?" He asked. "I wasn't intending to stay this long."

"No harm done." I said quickly, before he could begin to apologize. "Are you walking home?" I asked as I rose to see him out.

"As long as the weather has held." The Doctor replied. It had.

"Be careful." I admonished him. "Good night, Doctor."

Doctor Watson smiled as he stepped out into the street. "Good night, Lestrade." He replied cheerfully.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	2. Chapter 2

"Message for you, Lestrade." Hopkins caught me as I came in to work the following morning.

"Thank you." I took the envelope and continued towards my office.

I closed the door behind me as I opened he envelope, but paused before removing the letter as the writing on the front of the envelope caught my eye.

There was something about the handwriting, but I couldn't quite pinpoint what. I brushed aside the thought that I _should_ know what it was, and set the envelope aside to worry over later. Then I pulled out the letter.

"Hopkins!" I bellowed as I saw the signature. I found myself fumbling for my chair, my feet no longer steady.

Hopkins flung the door open, alarm written across his features. "Lestrade?" He caught sight of my face, which must have shown some of what I was feeling, for he took a step closer. "Are you alright?"

I shook my head and tried to pull myself together. "Where did you get this?" I still held the letter; I was dimly aware that I was waving it in the lad's face.

"Someone asked me to give it to you. A book collector, by the looks of him. An older fellow. Why? Hopkins was really starting to look worried now. I slid the envelope across the desk towards him.

"Whose handwriting is that?" I asked.

Hopkins looked at the envelope. Then he looked at me, eyes wide, all the color washed from his face. I offered him the letter. The lad took it, and looked back up at me. He opened his mouth, presumably to say something.

All that came out was a squeak.

"Breathe." I told the lad. Hopkins eyes darted from the letter to me and back to the letter.

"Breathe, Hopkins." I said, a little more loudly.

Finally I slapped him. I didn't want the boy passing out in my office.

Hopkins blinked and took a breath. "What are you going to do?" He asked.

"I'm going to do what he asks." I replied. "It _is _him." I hesitated. "Isn't it?"

"Who else could it be?" Hopkins was hesitant as well, now. "But is it possible?"

I considered this. "If anyone could survive Moriarty, he could." I pointed out. "And it's not like he's never purposely deceived or kept us in the dark before."

"But his _death_?" Hopkins wanted to know.

"If he thought he had a reason, he might." I said.

Hopkins frowned. "What is it's a trap?" He threw the idea out.

That _had_ occurred to me. "That's why I'm going. I'll take Adams and Smith with me. They can handle themselves."

Hopkins still wasn't pleased. "At least have backup nearby, just in case."

"You going to stand watch all night, _just in case_?" I replied.

"Sure." Hopkins nodded. "I'll have a few Constables on hand. But until we're sure, the fewer people that know, the better." He said reasonably. He did have a point there. This was going to cause enough of a stir when it got out as it was.

"Alright, Hopkins. Next street over, out of sight. I won't bother with a police whistle. You read the note, you know what time to be there."

Another nod. "And I'll keep the Constables out of the know. I hate doing that to them, but-"

"But the fewer people who know, the better." I finished.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	3. Chapter 3

Constable Smith tried not to yawn as he crouched beside me in the shadows. He was a good man, first rate, really, but he had also been through a rough shift this afternoon, and now instead of going home where he belonged and getting some rest, he was crouching in the shadows of a building, with no more information as to why other than my requesting his presence. Constable Adams noticed the action but didn't comment; he would likely be feeling it in the morning. I had a feeling I wasn't the only one hoping for something to happen soon.

I wondered, as I waited, what I would do if the letter turned out to actually be real. If Sherlock actually were alive.

I also wondered if the Doctor had known, when he had come to visit me last night, that Sherlock Holmes was alive. I also wondered how he had taken the news, and made a mental note to ask him later.

Another, nastier thought occurred to me, and I promptly banished it and sternly told myself that I had a job to do, and that I wasn't some rookie Constable to let myself get so easily distracted.

For a second longer the distressing thought lingered, but I have been called stubborn more than once for a reason, and I forced my mind back to my work, such as it was.

A second later the three of us ducked as a window shivered; a window that had been shivered into pieces by a bullet makes a sound all its own.

Smith and Adams were scanning the buildings as I listened for the signal, and suddenly Smith let out a cry and pointed.

221B Baker Street had a light on. Where once had been a window, now there was only air. A form- the form of one Sherlock Holmes, was still and in plain view from the street.

Sherlock Holmes had been shot?

A police whistle sounded, reassuring in the darkness. It was coming from the empty house across the street. I signaled for the boys to follow, and took off towards the empty house, refusing to speculate on what we would find inside.

"That you, Lestrade?" The call greeted me as we entered the dark room.

It was true, then. Sherlock Holmes was alive and well, thought it looked as if the Doctor had once again been to his rescue.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's good to see you back in London, sir."

While I was still trying to get a grip on the hundred and some thoughts and questions and emotions running loose in my head, I could still manage to be professional. Honestly, I didn't know what else to be right now.

If it had been the Doctor I might have said something as obvious as "You're alive!" or even something a bit more revealing, but with Sherlock-I would give the man nothing to throw back at me, no matter how I felt about seeing him alive.

"I think you want a little unofficial help." And the conversation continued as if he hadn't been allegedly dead for the last three years. "Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesy Mystery with less than your usual- that's to say, you handled it fairly well."

I blinked, and was grateful for the dim light, for it would hide the majority of my surprise. Sherlock Holmes had just praised my efforts on that confounded and previously thankless case. Part of me wondered just what he'd been into these past three years.

Adams and Smith were on either side of our would-be murderer as Sherlock and the Doctor rose to their feet.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	4. Chapter 4

I wasn't sure which bothered me more, the fact that Sherlock Holmes had showed up from the dead and promptly identified and captured for us the murderer of one Ronald Adair, or-

Or the fact that when he had finished he had so casually summoned the Doctor as if he had every right do so, even after three years of deception, and that Doctor Watson had followed him out without the slightest hesitation or even a backwards glance.

I wondered if I were overreacting. I also wondered if I were just imagining that Adam's and Smith's silence had gone from strictly professional to somewhat uncertain as the Doctor left.

They seemed to relax as I wasted no time in sending them back to the Yard with the Colonel, so I guessed it had not merely been my imagination.

I found Hopkins, and confirmed that yes, Sherlock Holmes was back. The lad nearly let out an excited shout before he got a hold of himself. He started stammering and turning red. I just shrugged and commented that yes, it was good to have him back, and pretended not to notice.

Then it was back to the Yard to spread the news. They were waiting for us; everyone had been aware that something was up. They just hadn't been expecting what they got.

Bradstreet was the only one not overly affected. He simply nodded at the news while Jones swore and Gregson asked if I were kidding. At the glares he received as a result of his reaction, he explained.

"Hopkins' book collector was at the Doctor's this afternoon. When he went in, and didn't come back out, it was obvious who it had to have been."

Gregson snorted rudely, and Jones rolled his eyes. Bradstreet just smiled. "When you have eliminated all the other possibilities whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." He quoted.

He grinned and quickly retreated before either Inspector could hit him.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: Sorry it's been a while. The internet at home isn't working. I had to come to the library and use theirs in order to post this. I don't know when the internet problems will get cleared up, so updating will certainly not be as often. Again, sorry.

* * *

"Should I feel guilty?" I asked. I couldn't help it. I felt guilty. I also felt petty, and selfish, and any number of other less than enjoyable emotions.

My wife let go of me and pulled away so she could study my face. "For what?" She asked, giving no indication that she had had other plans for tonight than to sit and reassure her husband.

"For feeling jealous." I admitted.

"Of whom?" She asked, her eyes wide, as if the idea of me being jealous of someone were something that had never occurred to her. It didn't help anything. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should have said anything at all, but eventually I gave in.

"Mr. Holmes." I said.

My wife was silent for a moment, trying to decide what she thought I needed to hear. "No." She said at last. "You're only human, Giles."

"I _am_ glad he's back." I defended myself unnecessarily. "And happy for the Doctor."

"Of course you are." My wife agreed. "I don't doubt that."

I sighed. "It's just...never mind."

"Give it time, dear." Lizzie murmured. "For all intents and purposes, John's just gotten his brother back." I wondered anew at how well the woman seemed to know me, how she seemed to read my mind at such times as these.

"I know." I said.

"He's not going to forget you, Giles. And Mr. Holmes wasn't slighting you. You know that."

"I know."

"And _you_ are only human."

I made a face. "It irritates me though, that we all have such blind faith in the man, that we put so much trust in him, and he does things like pretend he's dead for three years. Doctor Watson shouldn't have had to resort to getting comfort from _me_ after his wife died. He shouldn't have had to spend three years thinking his best friend was dead. And he should have been the first to find out that Mr. Holmes wasn't. _I_ found out before the Doctor did, Lizzie!"

"Business first, dear." My wife offered serenely. "Would you expect anything else from the man?"

"This was _Doctor Watson._" I insisted. "The only man in the world he actually considered a friend. The Doctor trusts him, and he abuses that trust. And the man still trusts him anyway!"

"You've had a shock, dear." My wife said soothingly. "You're overwrought, and you're not thinking clearly."

I frowned at her. "I'm not overwrought."

"You found out this morning that Sherlock Holmes was alive after three years of thinking he was dead. Tell me that didn't do something to you, and tell me that you weren't too busy doing your job to figure out what." My wife's eyebrows were raised, daring me to disagree with her.

I didn't. She was right, after all. "So what do I feel, anyway?" I asked. "I mourned the man. I watched those around me mourn him. I met the Doctor at the bloody railroad station as he came back." I paused for a moment, trying to sort out my thoughts. Lizzie simply waited.

"I wanted to grab the man by his shoulders and shake him and demand to know what he thought he was playing at back there. I wanted to poke him to see if he was real. I considered checking myself in to the nearest mental institution. What I did was politely welcome the man back to London as if he'd simply been gone on holiday! Is there something wrong with me?"

My wife looked thoughtful. "Kristina claims you were dropped on your head as a child." She teased gently. "Is there any validity to that?"

I snorted. "I was five." I told her. "And my brother had shoved me out of the bed."

My wife studied me intently. "I didn't know you had a brother."

"I had four." I told her. "And another sister, other than Kristina."

"You never told me that." There was no accusation in the statement, just curiosity.

I shrugged. "You never asked."

"I didn't think you wanted to talk about it." Lizzie admitted.

"I didn't." I admitted. I wondered if she were purposely trying to side track me, or if she were giving me the opportunity to think while we had this ridiculous conversation.

"So did it do any damage when they dropped you on your head?" My wife wondered.

I sighed. "It did not cause any permanent physical damage." I clarified, and was grateful when Lizzie did not ask for more. Though how she always knew when to leave things alone was beyond me.

"Good." She said. "Now do you mind if I distract you from your troubles until tomorrow, or would you rather worry them through the rest of the night?"

I considered the question for all of two seconds. "Just what do you mean, distract me?"

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	6. Chapter 6

My surprise must have shown on my face when I opened the door, because the Doctor hesitated. "Is something the matter?" He asked, after a second, worry clouding his features.

"No." I managed. Then I smiled. "I just thought you might have other plans for today." After all, though it had somehow become a regular occurrence, there had never really been any discussion or agreement that he would join us for dinner every week.

An eyebrow went up. "It would be the height of rudeness to miss, but especially to cancel on such short notice." He quipped. Then he smirked. "Present company excluded, of course."

"Thanks." I returned, still slightly uneasy at his presence, though I should not have been. "Good to know you don't hold last week against me."

"Well, if your wife didn't fault you for bleeding all over the tablecloth, why should I?" He asked courteously as I backed up to let him in. "How's your arm?"

I favored him with a baleful look as I took his hat and coat. "Can you at least wait until you've made it through the door before asking? Just once?"

"I _did_ make it through the door, Lestrade." The Doctor informed me with authority. "The hall is definitely past the door."

I pretended to study the hall for a moment. "Imagine that." I offered. "Who would've thought?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. He was also, however, not to be distracted. "Well?" He asked.

I groaned and resigned myself to answering his question, and then to being poked and prodded. For whatever reason, I found I didn't mind so much today.

Not that I would let him know that.

* * *

Author's note: And this is the end, I suppose, of this story, though there are a few things that still need worked out among Lestrade, Watson, and Holmes. That, however, is another story...

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


End file.
